The Truck in the Driveway

“There’s no such thing as an ordinary morning—not when the dogs are silent and the truck doesn’t match.”

A small delivery truck sat idly in Luke and Jamie's driveway, and a sense of unease began to creep over me. It wasn’t anything overt—no shattered glass, no sound of alarm—but something about the stillness, the unfamiliar presence of that vehicle, gnawed at my instincts. I brought the car to a halt at the edge of the curb, my eyes fixed on the vehicle.

"That's odd," I murmured, the words barely escaping my lips as I stared out the front windscreen with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Beatrix, seemingly unfazed by the scene, pushed open her door and stepped out into the morning light. "What's odd?" she inquired, looking back at me over her shoulder, the sun catching in her tousled hair.

Leaning forward in my seat, I squinted, trying to reconcile the image of the truck in front of us with the one I had struggled to drive less than twenty-four hours ago. "I'm sure that's not the same truck I brought around yesterday," I said slowly, my voice tinged with doubt.

"Perhaps someone else is helping him?" Beatrix offered, her tone practical, trying to inject reason into the moment.

I reached behind me to the backseat, fishing blindly for my handbag while keeping my eyes locked on the unfamiliar truck. It looked cleaner, newer—even the logo was different. Something about it didn't sit right. My instincts were prickling like nettles on bare skin.

"Perhaps," I replied, not entirely convinced, as I finally opened my door and stepped out. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes, the sound stark in the quiet.

Beatrix glanced at me with a flicker of caution, her expression unreadable. We moved slowly towards the driveway, our steps oddly synchronised. The front door of the house stood ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze. It would have seemed innocuous on any other day, but today it felt wrong—too open, too quiet.

Then it hit me. A small but significant detail that made my stomach turn. Where are Duke and Henri?

Normally, those two little dogs would have been bursting through the door, tails wagging, yipping excitedly at the sound of visitors. But now? Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a bark. Just silence.

A sense of dread settled into my chest, cold and insistent. My hand curled tightly around the strap of my handbag, as if gripping it would ground me. Does this really mean that Jamie isn’t here? The thought felt like a lead weight in my gut, dragging down the hope I’d been clinging to since yesterday.

I offered Beatrix a noncommittal shrug, trying to mask the turmoil beneath my calm exterior. "Hey, Luke," I called out, raising my voice just enough for it to carry across the driveway. The sound echoed slightly in the still morning air, bouncing off the brick walls and disappearing into the silence.

No response.

The tension grew thick around us, wrapping itself around my throat. I followed several steps behind Beatrix as we approached the truck, its back door hanging open in a way that suggested either haste or carelessness—or both.

Each step felt heavier than the last. My heart thudded louder in my ears. Something was off. Very off.

And whatever it was, I was walking straight into it.

Suddenly, Beatrix let out a piercing scream from the other side of the truck.

"What the fuck, Luke!" she yelled, her voice filled with shock and terror.

My heart leapt into my throat, skipping a beat in sheer panic. The scream ripped through the stillness like a blade. I bolted towards her, my breath catching in my chest, dread curling in my stomach like a tightening fist.

Is it Jamie? Is he hurt? The thought consumed me as I rounded the back of the truck, bracing for the worst.

And there it was.

My eyes locked onto the scene inside the vehicle, and for a moment, the world slowed to a crawl. Blood. So much blood. It pooled thickly beneath the limp form of a young man lying sprawled on the floor of the truck. His skin was pale, almost waxy. Silent. Still.

"No, no, Luke, no," I stammered, the words tumbling from my lips without thought. My voice was barely a whisper, trembling under the weight of horror. I stumbled backwards, unable to look, yet unable to turn away completely.

I started pacing, walking in frantic little circles like an animal in a cage. My brain refused to process what I was seeing. My feet moved on instinct, as if physical motion could chase away the image now seared into my memory.

I reached out blindly and placed both palms against the brick retaining wall beside the driveway, desperate for something—anything—solid to hold onto. The cool roughness of the brick pressed into my skin, grounding me for a moment in the here and now.

But it wasn’t enough.

Brody.

The memory slammed into me with such violence that it stole my breath. The same position. The same horrible stillness. My stomach turned violently. Why is there always so much blood? The thought echoed in my mind like a haunting chant.

I gagged, the bitter sting of bile surging into the back of my throat. "You can't do this to me," I muttered to no one in particular, the words barely coherent through the nausea and rising panic. I staggered away from the truck, my legs trembling beneath me, the world spinning like a carousel gone mad.

I aimed for the car, but my body had other plans.

My knees gave out as I reached the soft grass at the edge of the driveway. I collapsed, the earth cool beneath me, and vomited violently into the greenery. My whole body convulsed as the contents of my stomach surged up in waves, hot and acidic. I sat back on my knees, dazed, unable to even wipe the drool that slid from my mouth onto my jeans.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Again. Slow. Deep. The exercises I’d learned long ago came back to me in fragments. And slowly, very slowly, Brody’s face began to fade from my mind’s eye, retreating like a ghost into shadow.

The momentary calm was fleeting.

Dragging myself upright, I stumbled to the car and slumped into the passenger seat. I let my feet fall heavily onto the kerb. I stared blankly out the windscreen for a second, my vision blurred not with tears, but with sheer emotional overload. And then my eyes landed on it.

The bottle of shiraz.

Lying on the floor like a lifeline.

"Shit," I muttered, the word almost torn from me, my voice a mix of fury and despair. My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped the bottle trying to pick it up. The glass was cool and familiar in my palm—comforting, even—and that terrified me.

Fingers fumbling, I twisted the cap, too hard, the metal snapping with a sharp pop. The cap tumbled and rolled into the gutter outside. I didn’t care. My focus was already elsewhere.

I lifted the bottle to my lips. The rich, perfumed scent of the shiraz reached me first—blackberry, spice, and the faintest whisper of oak. The aroma was so familiar, it nearly broke me. Jamie would have wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes if he saw me like this. He would’ve said something gently snide. "Oh, Gladys... really?"

But Jamie wasn’t here.

He wasn’t here to disapprove. He wasn’t here to stop me.

And that realisation broke something loose in me.

I took three long gulps—deep, defiant swallows that burned slightly as they slid down my throat. The warmth blossomed in my chest almost immediately, dulling the edges of my panic. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the sleeve of my jumper catching the last traces.

The bottle rested against my knee as I stared at the quiet house in front of me.

The young man in the truck. The blood. Brody. Jamie. Luke. Cody.

It all swirled together into a dark, tangled mess I couldn’t begin to make sense of.

And the wine—my ever-familiar crutch—did what it always did. It numbed just enough of the pain to let me breathe. But it couldn’t erase what I’d seen. It never could.

As the initial calming effect of the alcohol began to settle in, dulling the edges of panic, I forced myself to return to the scene of the brutal crime. My steps were shaky but determined. The sharp sting of wine still lingered on my lips, but my mind was beginning to clear—just enough to grasp what had to happen next.

“We need to call the Police," I declared with a newfound resolve, the words heavy but unwavering. It seemed so simple—so obvious. If Luke was innocent, then surely he had nothing to fear.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Luke snapped, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip.

I flinched. The venom in his tone jolted me, sent a shiver racing down my spine. That wasn’t the reaction of an innocent man. He's guilty! The thought screamed through my brain with deafening clarity. My hand instinctively moved the bottle of wine closer to my mouth, and I took another sip—slower this time, shakier.

Beatrix gasped audibly beside me. "There's so much blood," she murmured, her voice distant and fragile. She stepped back, recoiling as though the sheer volume of it might leap out and stain her too.

Of course there's so much fucking blood! I wanted to scream. My eyes locked on the thick, crimson spray across the side panel of the truck—arterial. Messy. Violent. Not an accident. What a fucking mess.

"We can't, Gladys," Luke cut in, his voice more controlled now, but taut with tension.

"Why not?" I asked, my voice brittle, testing. I needed him to explain—convince me. Because if he couldn’t, the only logical conclusion was that we were in serious danger. That I might be next. That Jamie... Jamie was already lost. Jamie, where are you? I pleaded silently, the question echoing through the caverns of my mind.

"Well, that'll look great, won't it," Luke snapped again, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I'm covered in blood; your sister now has her fingerprints all over the crime scene, and you're standing there drinking wine out the bottle."

I looked down at the bottle of shiraz, still trembling in my hand. His words struck with frightening accuracy. From the outside, we were chaos incarnate. A man bloodstained to the elbows. A woman—my sister—inside the vehicle with a corpse, disturbing the scene. And me, swaying slightly with a half-drunk bottle of wine in hand like some unhinged accessory to murder.

My gaze flicked to Beatrix. She’d climbed into the truck, crouched beside Luke and the lifeless body, her face pale and drawn. Watching her navigate the horror scene with a strange mix of fascination and disgust made the situation feel even more unreal.

We were in it. Deep.

The weight of Luke’s argument settled heavily in my chest. I could feel the tight knot of doubt beginning to form, winding around my gut. We couldn’t undo what we had already done. The longer we waited, the worse it would look. Panic clawed at the back of my throat.

"Fuck!" Luke suddenly roared, slamming his fist into the metal siding of the truck.

The bang echoed down the street like a gunshot. I jumped, the sound jarring me from my spiral of thought. My heart leapt into my throat, and the bottle in my hand rattled against my thigh as I gripped it harder. The pressure behind my eyes swelled, hot and stinging. I could feel the tears beginning to rise, unwelcome but unstoppable.

Everything was unravelling—inside me, around me. And I had no idea how to stop it.

“What happened to him?" Beatrix turned to Luke, her voice laced with a curiosity that bordered on clinical. She wasn’t afraid—she was intrigued. Her eyes swept the interior of the truck and then landed squarely on the splattered mess beside the lifeless body. "Is that yours?" she asked, pointing delicately at the vomit.

"It is," Luke replied softly, the words hanging in the air like an admission of guilt or grief—it was hard to tell which.

I swallowed hard, unsure whether from the wine or the dread curdling in my stomach. "What are you going to do with him?" I asked, my voice low and muffled as I tipped the bottle to my lips again. Each sip offered the illusion of courage, but it couldn’t mask the truth: I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer. My skin crawled with the thought of being this close to another corpse. One dead body is enough, I thought bleakly, I can’t go through this again.

"I don't know," Luke said. His voice was distant, as though the answer had fled him just when he needed it most. "I was thinking of taking him through the Portal."

My head jerked up. A spark of hope flared in my chest. Perfect! The idea of disposing of the body, of casting this entire nightmare into some unseen world, felt like a lifeline—cold and desperate, but a lifeline all the same.

But then—

"Shit," Luke muttered, doubt flickering across his features.

My heart plummeted. What? Why? No—you must! My grip on the bottle tightened as I took several deep gulps in rapid succession, chasing away the rising panic.

"Don't worry," Beatrix chimed in suddenly, her tone breezy as she gave Luke a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Gladys already told me about your Portal."

I nearly dropped the bottle. My breath caught in my throat as Luke’s eyes cut to mine—sharp, accusing. Guilt stabbed at my chest. I had betrayed him. I’d promised. And now Beatrix, clueless about the sacredness of that secret, chuckled like it was some casual party trick.

"Sorry," I whispered, unable to meet his gaze as I brought the bottle to my lips once more. The wine coated my tongue, bitterer than before.

"Can I see it?" Beatrix asked, wide-eyed, her voice laced with something unnervingly close to excitement.

"I don't know," Luke muttered, glancing away. The weariness in his posture betrayed just how much weight he was carrying. His fingers twitched at his side, restless with indecision.

"Oh, come on," Beatrix pressed, as though we were trying to convince him to show us a new kitchen appliance. "You have to get rid of this body anyway, so you may as well," she said with a shrug.

Luke didn't answer. He stood there in the back of the truck, staring at the young man's body as if trying to will it to vanish. His silence was heavier than anything he could have said.

The quiet stretched uncomfortably, the only sound the soft creak of the truck frame beneath him.

"How are the two of you being so calm about all of this?" Luke finally asked, his voice tight with disbelief. There was no venom in his words—just sheer bafflement.

"Calm?" I echoed the word as though it were a foreign concept, letting out a mirthless laugh as I raised the bottle again. My hand trembled slightly. If this was calm, I didn’t want to see panic.

Beatrix shrugged, completely unmoved, as though we'd stumbled onto a bizarre television drama rather than an actual crime scene. "I don't know," she said simply, her tone as casual as someone discussing the weather.

Luke exhaled slowly, his expression pinched with exhaustion. "I need to clean up first," he said, gesturing for Beatrix to come with him.

"Sure," she said, light as air, and without a second glance at the body, she jumped down from the truck, brushing her palms off as if wiping away the weight of the moment.

I remained where I was, perched on the edge of the retaining wall, wine in hand, thoughts whirling like leaves in a gale. I stared into the truck, at the dark pool of blood that had soaked into the grooves of the metal floor. No one here was calm—not really. We were just surviving. In the only ways we knew how.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly as I watched Luke shift his weight inside the truck. My hands hovered awkwardly at my sides, unsure whether to help or run.

"Huh?" Beatrix turned around, confusion etched across her face until she followed my gaze and realised I wasn’t talking to her.

"I need to move him forward," Luke explained, breathless, his arms straining with effort. "His foot is stopping the door from closing properly." He let out a grunt, lifting the limp body from beneath the arms. The sound of Joel’s shirt fabric dragging across the metal floor scraped at my nerves. Luke’s face twisted into a grimace—part from the physical effort, part from something deeper.

"So, who is he anyway?" I blurted out, my curiosity cutting through the haze of shock like a jagged knife. My voice was too loud, too brittle. "Did you know him?"

"He's just the delivery guy," Luke whispered.

But something in his tone... it cracked. The words came out hollow, as if they had been rehearsed but no longer held up. He wasn’t convincing anyone—not even himself.

"Who?" Beatrix pressed, stepping closer, her posture rigid and demanding. "Who is he, Luke?"

Luke paused mid-motion, slumping slightly as if the weight of the body had finally become too much. A single tear escaped down his cheek, carving a pale path through the grime on his face. He looked up at Beatrix, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw—almost reverent.

"His name is Joel. He's Jamie's son."

The world seemed to still. Even the breeze paused.

"Shit," Beatrix muttered, stunned, the curse slipping from her lips like a prayer.

The wine bottle slipped from my hand, striking the concrete with a dull clink before shattering into jagged pieces. Red liquid gushed across the ground, mingling with Joel’s blood in a grotesque imitation of ceremony. For a second, I stared at the mess, as though my mind couldn’t separate one spill from the other.

"Oh dear," I murmured, dazed. The words felt like they belonged to someone else. I barely recognised my own voice.

"What the... how... when did..." Beatrix stumbled through her questions, eyes wide, words tumbling out like marbles from a broken jar.

"I had no idea. No idea at all," I repeated, my gaze flitting helplessly between Beatrix, the body, and Luke. My brain scrambled for something, anything, to hold onto. Jamie had a son. Had. Past tense. And now that boy was dead in the back of a truck, his blood soaking into plywood and tarpaulin.

Suddenly, Luke lurched out of the truck bed, landing clumsily on the ground with a thud that echoed against the driveway walls. His shoulder brushed violently against mine as he passed, jarring me from my stupor.

"Luke!" Beatrix called, her voice rising in alarm. "Where are you going?"

"Don't leave us here with him!" I cried out, panic sharpening the edges of my words. I stumbled forward, reaching instinctively. I can't be left alone with a corpse again. Not again. Not like Brody.

But Luke didn’t turn back. He kept walking, shoulders hunched, retreating into the shadows of the house—leaving us behind with a body, a broken bottle, and a grief that didn’t belong to any of us… but now burdened us all the same.